


ghost hands

by quartzses



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Gen, Not Reader Insert, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 09:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartzses/pseuds/quartzses
Summary: You try to run. You do not make it very far. You are tired. You wonder what has happened to you.





	ghost hands

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song 1216 by echos

You are sick.

 

You will die for an act of revenge that is not yours to take.

 

You think you will die happy.

 

You are sick.

 

“You are not insignificant,” they say.

 

“You matter,” they say.

 

“Yes,” you say, "but I am not the only one.”

 

(You have always loved.)

 

“Since when did you put yourself second?” they ask. You are sure they find it revolting. You are sure that they don’t think the idea of ‘love’ and ‘selflessness’ is in your vocabulary. You are sure they think you are the same monster that crawled onto their front doorstep years ago. You are sure you are happy they still believe your lies.

 

You have no answer.

 

(That is a lie. You know the truth. You will not share it.)

 

You are sick.

 

He says you fall in love at the drop of a hat. He should know that that is not the case. You love easily, it is true. You say you love everyone a little. It is true. You believe everyone has something inherently lovable in them. It is true. It is not without ulterior motive, but you tell yourself it should not matter.

 

(You love them all equally. They are yours.)

 

You are sick.

 

You run. You run until the phlegm cannot wait to escape and the lactic acid builds in your legs. You pride yourself on your speed. It becomes a detriment, as the years pass. You grow older. You throw up.

 

You are sick.

 

You wander the world aimlessly. You wonder what’s left for you, here.

 

You’re too young when the thoughts take you, you say. You stand by that thought to anchor you to this plane because you believe in the supernatural and a hell worse than whatever the worst has endured. You make it a petty lifeline; it shapes your future.

 

He says it’s a poor reflection on you. He says the thoughts should never take you. He says you should be stronger than this. You have never learned to tell him ‘no’.

 

You are sick.

 

You have been gone for too long. There is not much left for you when you return.

 

But still, you return.

 

You are sick.

 

You are too old. You have waited on this planet for far too long. You believe you serve no purpose, anymore. Yet you remain.

 

It is the next generation that will succeed you, you say. You will teach them everything you know.

 

You wonder if you ever served a purpose.

 

You are sick.

 

You are liberated. It is the freedom—the ruffle of the wind, the sea breeze, the _pitter-patter_ of rain on the sidewalk—that you sought. Now that you have obtained it, it is no longer what you want.

 

You do not relish in the success that you claimed was your glory. You wonder why not.

 

You are sick.

 

You have always had freedom. It was never something you had to fight for.

 

(Why are you struggling, now?)

 

With strength this grand, who could stop you?

 

You are sick.

 

“I love you,” you say. You don’t wait around.

 

You are sick.

 

You say you will gladly die for your love. It is the truth. You don’t know what you wouldn’t put your life down for, anymore.

 

It is a lie. For those beneath your eye-level, your amusement, you spare no excess compassion. You also know that you will not settle for anything less than success.

 

(You wonder if you will ever settle. You wonder if you will ever be content.)

 

You are sick.

 

You open the window. You examine your nails. You wait. You wait and wait and wait and wait and wait.

 

You do not know what exactly it is you are waiting for; something will happen soon, the city tells you. You used to be its weaver. You are the puppet, now.

 

You are sick.

 

The sheets are white. The air feels sterile, purified to hound away anything that could weaken your condition.

 

You say, “I’m not worth this effort.”

 

They say, “It does not matter,” with practiced disinterest. Once, you would have been able to discern the difference.

 

You are sick.

 

You want to say, “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

 

You want to say, “I can’t be who I used to be.”

 

They say, “You haven’t changed one bit.”

 

You say, “Haven’t I?”

 

Your love has changed. That love used to be your definition.

 

They say, “Everyone is wrong,” in an attempt of undeserved comfort. You do not correct them; you do not say that they are wrong in their assumption.

 

You think they enjoy your silence.

 

You are sick.

 

They say, “Aren’t you going to try? You could be so much more than you are now.”

 

You smile.

 

You are sick.

 

You remember the love you once held; the electrifying touch and the words left unsaid yet still understood. You remember what it was like to stand on the receiving end. It made you human, you said. You are not sure if it is still the truth.

 

You never return to the place you lived. You are a coward. It would remind you of things better left behind.

 

You are sick.

 

“It is in your head,” they say. “Move on. Forget. Your life will return to normal.”

 

You think, “I can’t let go.”

 

You say, “I was never normal.”

 

You are sick.

 

The visits trickle down to none as they lose patience. You lose patience, too.

 

You are how you were before you loved (and lost): alone. A self-proclaimed monster that dares not look in the mirror for fear of a gruesome reflection. A memory’s prediction comes true.

 

You are sick.

 

They say, “You will learn to love again.”

 

You say,

 

You say,

 

You say—  

 

“No.”


End file.
